Don't stop running
by littlebeat
Summary: They had the worst start in life, but somehow, someway, they managed to make it through the madness. With a little help, a lot of luck, and some guts, a brotherhood was formed, and family was made. AU Human turtles!


**Title: **Don't stop running

**Rating**: M

**Summary**: They had the worst start in life, but somehow, someway, they managed to make it through the madness. With a little help, a lot of luck, and some guts, a brotherhood was formed, and family was made. AU Human turtles!

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The glaze of the rain pattered in through the smashed window of the tenth floor flat. It was a miserable day, a horrible day, and it was going to get a whole lot worse.

Picking up his rucksack from the floor, Michelangelo heaved a heavy breath. The gulp was caught in his throat, and his tongue swelled as he stared at the scratched and dented wood of his door. To leave his room, he would have to undue all six of his locks, but to do that he's have to scrape away each one in turn.

The draft was chilly in the room, and the plastic container by the bottom of his ledge only caught a few of the falling droplets. He would have to make sure he was back early today to change it before his father noticed, otherwise…otherwise…

He shuddered, this time not from the wind. Hefting the strap of his bag over his shoulder, he started for the locks. Sliding back the two bronze locks at the top, unclipping the one from the bottom, and unlocking the three padlocks centred between them at even spaces, he placed them delicately aside and waited; holding his breath.

A choked snore banged against the cold walls. It was safe.

Opening the door, grateful it didn't creak, he stepped out into the dinky hall.

It was September. Outside the rain was dark and dreary and the thick scatter of ash-coloured clouds beneath the sky refused to move. It was going to be a wet day. Definitely, definitely a horrible day.

With baited breath, rucksack up and over one shoulder, shoes in the other, Michelangelo made his way across the living room floor in his holey socks. Sticking his tongue out in severe concentration, he dodged the Tai containers and the pizza boxes with practiced ease. Like a trained athlete, he weaved between the mountain of empty beer cans that littered the floor and averted his eyes from the used durex not three feet to his left.

By the moss-green couch the snores were enforced by a pungent stench. Wrinkling his nose, Michelangelo continued tip-toeing over the hoard. Wisps of blonde hair fell in front of ice blue eyes, but he daren't stop to move it aside.

The TV, on but muted, flashed colourful images across the back of the room, and across Michelangelo. Scattered in a rainbow of light, his breathing caught and his foot knocked against an empty can.

It rolled. Clanking.

Michelangelo flinched, wide eyes fearful. Glancing over to his sleeping father on the couch, he bit at his tongue so hard he could taste the blood, and froze.

Another snore, more powerful than the last, but other than that the flat remained motionless and still.

Tense shoulders unstiffened, but Michelangelo was too cautious to let relief swamp him just yet. He still had another seven feet of carpet filled mess and a stiff lock to separate him from his freedom for the day.

Picking up each foot carefully, lifting it a few inches higher than before, he continued on his path like a deer hoping to escape the lion's den. Stealthily, with as much grace and composure as can be identified in a fifteen year old, he reached the rickety door with the iron clasp.

His father had originally had the only key when they first moved in, and Michelangelo would often face the wrath of the world upon waking him to leave for school or otherwise. Sometimes he climbed out of the window in his room, jumped down onto the ninth floor balcony beneath his window, and asked Miss Moray to let him in so he could leave. But when she threatened to call child services he stopped and thought of a better plan. Taking the key to be cut and copied was a spark of genius, and his father had no idea that he had the duplicated copy. Hopefully, with a little luck, he never would.

Slipping the copied key into the lock, he closed his eyes, prayed hard, and waited.

_Click!_

…Silence.

A beautiful sound.

Turning the handle with the utmost care, he pulled the door wide. Grabbing his orange jacket from the stand, he slipped out, leaving the door unlocked. Outside the sigh of relief came heavily.

Without pause he jumped down the steps two and three at a time, a smile on his face in the deserted hours of the morning. Reaching the bottom floor, his hands found the wired metal door and slung it wide.

He was outside, in the rain, his jacket in one hand and his white and blue streaked trainers in the other. He'd missed the buss by seconds, his bike had been stolen not three weeks ago, and he was running out of time before the new term started. If he was late on the first day, fifteen or not, he would be kicked out. And then he'd have to spend longer hours, harder days, with his father.

The water dripped off his hair and down his neck. Hopping, he slipped his trainers on, threw his jacket around his shoulders and sprinted after the buss, unable to yell over the wind's howling screeches.

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**R&R! **

Let me know what you think :)


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